


Reflections in Liquid

by PurpleFluffyCat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 13:49:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1187589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleFluffyCat/pseuds/PurpleFluffyCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quiet moment at Hogwarts' staff Christmas drinks, Albus' last Christmas as Headmaster. <i>What could be more evocative than a favourite Christmas tipple?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflections in Liquid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sigune](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sigune).



> Written for sigune, in the wonderful Hogwarts' staff Christmas party: hoggywartyxmas - a really lovely niche Christmas fest :-) From sigune's sign-up, the phrases "my favourite things are small-scale character studies," and "I'm not too fond of excessive sweetness and light, either" leapt out for me; this is the result.

_The drinks tray passes round - what variety, what choice! The elves have once again outdone themselves, despite the fear in the air. Milling, mulling, each hand reaches forth to enclose a crystal stem; cheeks rosy, eyebrows knit, the ghosts of Christmases past playing just behind the eyes.  
  
For what could be more evocative than a favourite Christmas tipple?_  
  
  
  
 **A Wee Dram**  
  
  
Her first taste of whisky was from the distillery on the hill, suckled from Father's finger while Mother wasn't looking. It was disgusting. - Of course, it would be, to a four-year-old.  
  
As she grew older, Minerva was determined that she would like the stuff, and, aged nine, set about ritual tastings of every bottle in the house. She found every one distinctly lacking as even a basic comestible - but, at one part malt to nine parts honey, the Mild was just about bearable. It was every bit worth it for the feeling of grown-upness, at least, and her cheeks flushed against her black hair as she sat at the Christmas table with her special drink.  
  
Supple sunlight in the bowl, she swirls now, breathing deeply. The distillery on the hill is still there, although much reduced, barely producing a barrel a year. Sometimes - especially now - her heart feels like that, too.  
  
Father died when Minerva was nineteen; she talks to him through her glass. They would have shared a dram on Christmas eve, wrapping presents for Mother - but now there is so much he does not know of her; decades of achievement and heartbreak and joy. She wishes she could write a letter to the grave; she wonders whether she will soon be able to deliver it personally.  
  
Minerva sighs, and the reflection on the surface catches the wink in his eye. Father grins and urges her, 'Drink up, Lassie! Are ye or are ye not a Scotswoman?!'   
  
She nods to him, resolute once more.  
  
  
  
 **Butterbeer Twist**  
  
  
The last time that Albus drank heavily was after Gellert; sodden-deep with alcohol and tears, grief and broken promises. Now, he favours something light and sweet and bubbly. There is enough hardness in the world without hard liquor, after all.   
  
This particular brew is made by the house elves themselves - with pride and devotion as they stir and season in their pristine monogrammed tea towels. He loves it enough to drink all year round, but at Christmas there is an added twist of cranberry from the Forest - yielding up its juices as if ink to a friend.  
  
The froth chases thickly up the sides of the glass, and Albus' mind wanders to those particular elves in the kitchens below; sweet, obedient and trusting. Then to the children - hundreds of faces upturned in the Hall as he speaks, expecting to be kept safe and let out into the world as competent witches and wizards. And then there are the news reporters, the politicians, the parents - each with their own agenda, each weighing his words.  
  
The elder wand throbs as it rests in the sleeve of his robe and his blackened hand hurts. It's up to him to care for them all, and as the bubbles play across his tongue they taste of precarious sweetness and the faltering responsibility for thousands.  
  
  
  
 **Absinthe, Flamed with Sugar**  
  
  
Paris, early in the century, was Horace's golden age - parties and boys and magic in the air from wizards and muggles alike. He was vibrant, and popular and so very handsome in his tweed and velvet and silk; people would flock from miles around to attend a Slughorn-signature soirée. The music would last 'til dawn and the cellar would never run dry. Princes and performers would rub shoulders (and then more), artistic movements were born and sacrificed... and the next night there would be another, greater, more wonderful party!  
  
\- Or at least, so goes the tale. It might have been embellished over the years, Horace may admit. But he  _did_  have some jolly decent friends, and it  _was_  rollicking good fun.  
  
Now, the contents of his crystal might be a little too strong for an old man with a tendency to doze off - but it's important to keep the Green Fairy aloft, he thinks. His hands shake if he dwells too much upon it all, but deep down Horace is sure that there has to be another party. There has to be some hope; something for tomorrow's young people that isn't all doom and gloom. There has to be a reason to keep the Absinthe on ice.   
  
-And when he has a drink in hand Horace is not quite as scared as usual -  _for no-one could be killed while drinking a cocktail, now could they?_  He can almost believe that he would fight for that reason; for that party.  
  
  
  
 **Elf-Made Wine, 1954 Vintage**  
  
  
Severus first tasted elf-made wine at Malfoy Mansion, green and awkward, aged sixteen. It was like nothing he could have imagined; complex, refined and precious, a million leagues from the lager his Father swilled and stank of - a little glass of poetry promising better things.  
  
And those verses were persuasive - at least at first. The lavish meals, the fine clothes, the praise at his potion-making and the honour of joining the Dark Lord.  
  
Now, he drinks the fine wine upon a tightrope, relishing every drop as if it may be his last. The tension and the duplicity are both a sickening stress and a thrill to his cleverness.  _For what is left of Severus Snape, otherwise?_  he thinks. A fine tool, well-honed, may as well be properly kept.  
  
Smoothly, he considers the bouquet of someone-else's heritage. Sharp, nutty, with a hint of meadow and sunlight that he will likely never know. Severus presses his lips to the glass and drinks. Eyes closed, he relishes the tiny illusion of a life that he could choose and a future that he might want. Tonight feels special; it might last for as long as the bottle is full.  
  
  
  
 _"A toast, then," someone calls._  
  
All look round, eyes focussing forward and banishing the dancing shadows of what has been before.  
  
"-To Hogwarts."  
  
"To Hogwarts!" all concur, and drink deeply, vowing to make the best of new memories while they can.


End file.
